


Glacial

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mrennenimus is too cold to not spend the night together.





	Glacial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



> Gift for mcdanno28, who donated to a local foodbank for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “some grown up time for Spirk”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Our bedrooms, of course, are some of the finest in all the Federation,” the Mrennenimian delegate brags, even though this is, supposedly, the first contact they’ve ever had with the Federation, and for all they know, the Federation has whole planets made of fluffy mattresses. Thrusting one ashen white hand towards the wooden door at the end of the hall, the delegate continues, “We would be honoured for you to stay the night. Our First Minister should be available to speak with you again at first dawn, and in the meantime, your night-quarters come fully equipped with communication gear, should you need to contact my hospitality branch. We will, of course, see to any of your needs, but we have also, of course, already done so.” Every time the alien says ‘of course,’ a high pitched wailing noise winds out of his humanoid throat, but the universal translator smoothes it into regular Standard. Jim dons a diplomatic smile.

He tells his host, “I’m sure they’re wonderful, thank you.” The alien instantly starts flailing his arms, which Jim now knows is the equivalent of a pleased grin. He can’t help but wonder if it has some connection to warming oneself up, as, now that they’ve stopped walking, the chill’s rolled in again. Jim stoically ignores it, and the alien seems completely fine in the cool temperature, just flailing comically away. Sometimes, the hardest thing about first contact missions is just _not laughing_ at people.

When the Mrennenimian’s arms have stilled again, he points to another door across the way, adding, “We have secured _two_ whole suites in honour of this momentous occasion—a true feat indeed, I assure you, given that space in our luxurious parliament building is at such a premium. As captain, however, we would not expect you to share, of course; our First Minister is always awarded her own chambers, so, naturally, we have extended the same courtesy to you. Your esteemed first and second officers may enjoy the second suite. The beds, I promise, are large enough to fit up to four of your persons.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim can see Bones’ mouth opening, probably to correct the ‘second officer’ title, but the bed size comment seems to throw him for a lop, and he promptly shuts his mouth again. Before he can cause trouble, Jim jumps in: “Thank you. That’s most kind.”

“Yes, we are most kind,” the alien answers proudly. “And humble. And auburn.”

The Mrennenimian people seem to be a unanimous shade of snow-white with exclusively emerald clothing, and there’s absolutely nothing auburn about them at all. But it wouldn’t be the first idiosyncrasy the translator tripped over, so Jim smoothly ignores it. He taps his chin with his index finger, which he’s learned is the Mrennenimian parting gesture, and their host returns it. Without a word to Spock or Bones, their nameless caretaker turns on his heel and swiftly strolls off around the serpentine corridor. Jim waits in silence for an extra two minutes, just making sure they’re alone.

Then Bones loudly grumbles, “They better have a hot bath and a giant pile of blankets in there.” He crosses his arms, making an exaggerated show of shivering, and Jim quite agrees—the inside of the parliament building seems no better than the frosty outdoors they first transported into. Without an alien witness to his weakness, Jim finally allows himself to rub his arms. What he wants to do is rub _Spock’s_ arms, and Bones’ discomfort gives him a sharp reminder of that. It it’s been cold for him, he can only imagine what it’s done to Spock.

But Spock, even with their host long gone, stands as sturdily as ever, and he calmly tells Bones, “As the third minister of recreation informed us, Doctor, the Mrennenimians view the act of immersing oneself in water to be quite primitive. If you cannot wait until we return to the Enterprise’s facilitates, however, you may request one of their snuflegasts for cleaning.”

Bones makes a gagging noise, and Jim shudders at the memory of being shown the ‘incredibly innovative and revolutionary’ way that Mrennenimians clean themselves: a large, bear-like animal with a tongue the size of a surf board and a penchant for licking anything in range. Looking thoroughly disgusted, Bones retorts, “You know damn well that’s not what I meant, but this is precisely why I’ll be taking my own room, thank you very much.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, glancing at Jim as though for confirmation. Jim agrees, “Go for it. It’ll save me having to subtly sneak Spock out of yours anyway.”

Bones rolls his eyes and shakes his head, already turning for the closest door. He grunts, “Good night,” and Jim playfully wiggles his arms as Bones leaves. Spock merely steps out of the way.

Then the two of them are left in the hallway, and Jim drops the joke, double checking yet again: “Are you sure you don’t want to beam up?”

Spock responds, “I am perfectly fit for duty, Captain,” and Jim doesn’t push it, because he knows Spock knows exactly what he means. He’s sure Spock can see it in his eyes. He’s spent all day suppressing his worry, but Spock insisted on treating this mission just like any other, regardless of the decidedly not Vulcan-friendly temperature—and in every mission where Jim can have it, Spock’s by his side. 

He leaves it at that and heads for the other door, Spock falling into step with him. The latch partway up the frame isn’t all that different from a doorknob, and the door swings open like they used to do on Earth—Jim steps aside to let Spock through. There doesn’t seem to be any way to lock the door afterwards, but having spent the better part of the day touring the parliament building, he’s fairly confident in Mrennenimian security. His communicator’s in his back pocket, just in case. There wasn’t any need for a phaser—the closest thing the Mrennenimians have developed to a weapon is a large plastic device that looks rather like a primitive clothespin, which they use to pinch their enemies.

There’s nothing technically _wrong_ with the quarters inside, but Jim’s first impression is still disappointment, purely because they talked their accommodations up so much. There are no windows or paintings to decorate the turquoise walls. The room isn’t that much large then his cabin on the Enterprise, and the bed is roughly the same size, with round pillows and, unfortunately, only one thin sheet over it. He stifles a wince—so much for bundling up in blankets. Spock surveys it too, saying nothing.

Jim spends a few seconds pondering his options, such as _ordering_ Spock up, even though the Mrennenimians would likely detect it and consider it an insult. There’s only one other choice. 

He turns to Spock, only one step into the room, and in a heartbeat, he has Spock flattened against the wall. With his Vulcan reflexes, Spock probably could’ve sidestepped Jim’s advances, but he submits to Jim’s whims like he always does, one way or another. He lets Jim press tight against him, trying to cut off all contact with the icy air. Jim’s hands search out Spock’s, and he clasps them quickly, squeezing reassuringly. Spock’s breath hitches, his body finally shivering. Only Jim can wrack out that response. Then his fingers trail up Spock’s palms to trace his wrists, just beneath the uniform, to try and quicken Spock’s pulse even more. He presses his forehead against Spock’s—another point of electric contact—and lets their mouths hover so close that he can taste Spock’s breath.

“ _Jim_...” Spock quietly tries—a departure from the _captain_ title he’s used all day. He pauses to lick his lips, hesitating while Jim’s fingertips deftly follow either lifeline. “What are you doing...?”

“Warming you up.” His breath isn’t _quite_ visible, but Spock’s dark eyes flicker down anyway like he’ll see the little puff of it. Jim half expects Spock to straighten out and insist that no such help is necessary.

But Spock must be just as troubled as Jim feared, because he murmurs only, “I appreciate that.” And that’s as close as Spock gets to an enthusiastic plea for _more_.

Spock likely won’t mind the hardness of the wall, but that’s not good enough for Jim. He brushes a barely-there kiss over Spock’s lips, afraid to do any more lest he be swept away in it—it wouldn’t be the first time he frantically fucked his first officer against a wall. He makes himself step back, and he tugs Spock with him by the hand, even _that_ an intimate touch that few others are permitted to enjoy. Jim takes Spock straight for the room’s only attraction: the bed. 

The mattress is high, just below their waists, and once they’re on it, Jim crawls back for the covers. The sheet won’t do much, but it’s a start, and he pulls Spock under with him, smoothing it back out afterwards and latching back onto Spock’s side. Spock turns right into him. For once, there’s no talk of respecting alien chambers—as soon as they’re lying down, Spock’s mouth is on his. There isn’t even time to shrug off their shoes. Jim opens up to take it, sucking Spock’s tongue right in and sliding a hand back into Spock’s hair. The other winds down Spock’s body, following the lean line of his spine and curving around his rear, pulling him in and thrusting him forward. Jim’s already stirring, and he’s not surprised to feel the hardness mirrored in Spock’s trousers. Spock kisses Jim with increasing ferocity, like he’s never been harder, like all the heat he’s ever wanted is trapped inside Jim’s body. Jim’s willing to share. They kiss and grind into one another and touch _everywhere_ they can, and Jim promises in between messily making out, “I’ll keep you warm, I promise. If you won’t beam up—”

“That would be inappropriate,” Spock tells him, raspy too, if less so—he always holds up better, though Jim breaks him down eventually. Jim laughs and shares another giant kiss, his fingers now spread against Spock’s shoulder blades as Spock explores his ass. 

He can’t help but tease, “And sex wouldn’t be?”

But Spock swiftly tells him, “the locals seem to have the same standards of privacy as most of the Federation: what two _t’hy’la_ do in their own room is between them.” Jim grins wide against Spock’s mouth, like he always does when Spock calls him that. The first time it ever happened, he was inside Spock—both mind and body—and he _felt_ everything the term encompassed. Spock turns to kiss Jim’s jaw, and one hand snakes beneath Jim’s waistband. The plan’s already working—Jim’s heating up fast.

By the time Spock’s kneading his rear beneath his pants and boxers, Jim’s on fire. Both hard, they can’t seem to stop thrusting together, and every drag of his clothed cock against Spock’s makes his head swim. He actually whines when the contact’s cut off by Spock cupping himself inside his pants, though Jim understands—they need oil, and a healthy dose of Vulcan precum always helps. Jim can still remember the excitement when he first learned just how much his reserved boyfriend would spill under the right conditions, and if he could, he’d duck down right now and lap it up. But he knows his rear will be a better sheath than his mouth in the moment, and he needs his whole body lined up with Spock’s—needs them touching everywhere they can, so he can warm the chill out of Spock’s bones. His skin isn’t exactly _cold_ , but it goes deeper—Jim knows it—and Spock kisses Jim like he’s so, _so_ grateful. All the emotion he stifles during duty is saved up for these moments, and Jim happily drinks it in. 

Spock uses his own precum to finger Jim’s hole, and Jim actually has to stop humping Spock and hold his hips still—if he keeps going, feeling Spock on both ends, he’ll come before he’s ready. He shudders instead, fighting the instinct to be all over Spock while Spock gently probes his furrowed hole. It takes far too long for Spock to poke inside, like it always does, but it _might_ be a bit swifter than usual. He only goes in a fraction of the way, and Jim draws in a breath as Spock gradually makes his way knuckle-deep. His fingers are long, thick, and know just where to stroke. Jim warns, “ _Spock_...” and Spock seems to understand. Instead of petting Jim’s walls, he withdraws to add a second digit, scissoring Jim open before adding a third. It’s still not enough. Any discomfort Jim might have is washed away with _want_ , and he clings to Spock’s body as he whispers, “ _Please_.”

A fluttering kiss against his cheek, and Spock’s withdrawing totally—Jim whines in his absence. But a second later, Spock’s rolled them over, Jim’s back to the mattress and Spock above him, tenting the sheet. It’s the reverse of what Jim wanted—to be Spock’s blanket—but it’s probably the best position for this now. It’s the best that he can offer. He lets Spock line up between his legs but holds onto Spock’s shoulders, ready to pull Spock down against him as soon as Spock’s inside. 

Spock wastes very little time. He lubes himself up with his own juices, then presses against Jim’s entrance. His eyes flicker to Jim’s, one hand landing on Jim’s hips, and the contact ripples through them, down into their bond. The touch-telepathy flares, Spock’s breath quickening for it. Jim’s uniform is clinging to him with newly brimming sweat. Spock’s barely got their pants open enough to allow this. Even their shoes are still on, but there’s no time to fix it now. Spock looks down at him with the same admiration as when he’s fully naked, and Jim nods his head. Captain’s order. He needs Spock in him _now_.

Spock complies. One swift thrust, and Spock’s halfway in, his girth more than the fingers and his touch addicting. Jim cries out over the burn, over the stretch and _feeling_ of it, over Spock inside him. Spock shudders, hesitates, and thrusts inside again—a little more, then a little more—and then he’s full seated, and Jim’s stuffed to the brim. Even as dizzy as he is, he still finds the wherewithal to pull Spock down around him. He clings to Spock in a crushing embrace. Spock buries a languid moan into his shoulder. In true feral Vulcan, Spock growls by his ear, “So _hot_.” Jim knows it’s no colloquialism. It’s the pure, literal _heat_ that Spock needed, and Jim flexes, clenching, drinking in the second moan it gives him. His legs bend back around his sides, shoes touching Spock’s ass. Spock bites at his cheek, just short of bruising. 

Drawing halfway out, Spock slams in again, and it feels hard, but the second’s even harder, and the third one makes the bed bang against the wall, even though there’s no headboard to rattle. By the time they’re in the full swing of things, the mattress is groaning on every thrust, Jim roaring all sorts of giddy noises. He cocoons himself around Spock’s body and savours every single place that their bodies connect, but especially Spock’s dick _inside him_ , sliding so deep on every go. Spock always finds the perfect angle without even trying; he knows Jim’s body perfectly, and Jim knows him in return. When Spock tries to snake a hand between them, going for Jim’s cock, still trapped inside his rolled-up pants, Jim pushes it away. Spock seems to understand. Spock has better stamina, and if he touches Jim’s cock, Jim will come. And Jim wants to keep Spock warm for as long as possible.

So they go, steady but relentless, over and over again. Jim drowns it, slicking up with sweat and wanting nothing more than to claw off both their clothes, but he keeps them all on for Spock’s sake, and instead just spreads his fingers beneath Spock’s shirt. He strokes Spock’s shoulders, kneads Spock’s pecs, fists Spock’s hair and drags Spock in for one kiss after another. Spock’s mouth is intoxicating, better than anything the Mrennenimians ever offered, and Spock’s presence makes even this dull bedroom seem divine. Jim basks in that, until he can’t hold back any longer, and he barrels to the end.

Just before he’s come, Spock snaps, finishing first with a ragged roar he muffles in Jim’s shoulder. He spills inside Jim’s channel, still pumping it out, milking Jim right through his own orgasm, which follows on Spock’s heels. They always seem to set one another off, one way or another—the bond won’t let them be apart for long. Jim comes inside his uniform as Spock paints his walls, the euphoric feelings ricocheting between in an intense tidal wave of _pleasure_. By the time Jim’s finally coming down, head thinning and panting, he feels like there isn’t a single bone left in his entire body. 

Spock stays bent over him for a few seconds after his hips have stilled. It occurs to Jim belatedly that he might’ve made it worse—his sweat will suck once the biting air kicks in again. At least Spock almost never sweats.

Spock doesn’t pull out of Jim, and even though it grows vaguely uncomfortable, Jim doesn’t make him. He lets Spock linger and just holds Spock atop him. Spock supports himself on his elbows, but he stays draped over Jim. He makes a decent blanket.

Then, all of a sudden, the lights wink out, leaving Jim blinking through the darkness in immense confusion. He’d completely forgotten they were even on, and he hadn’t thought to ask how they’d turn off, figuring there’d be an obvious switch or modern voice-activated controls. 

Spock mutters a quiet, “Fascinating,” but makes no further comment. If they puzzled over every strange thing their new friends did, they’d have no time for their own fun. For one wild second, Jim wonders if there’s some sort of sex-sensor that deactivates upon release, but he dismisses that as a little _too_ crazy.

Then Spock squirms a bit, pulling his flagging cock free of Jim’s hole. Jim hisses at the release, then again at the sticky mess that starts drizzling out of him. But he uses the excuse to maneuver his way out from under Spock. Spock wordlessly lies where he’s left until Jim’s sidled up on top of him, needing no light to know the exact location. When they’re at their most connected like this, their bond still sparking whenever and wherever they touch, Jim always knows _exactly_ where Spock is. He wriggles his way onto Spock’s stomach, knowing that his weight won’t bother his Vulcan boyfriend, and hoping he makes a better blanket than the one lone sheet. He grunts anyway, “This good?”

It’s telling that Spock doesn’t correct his grammar, only answers, “Yes.” 

“If you need warming up again, just let me know.” And Jim means with sex, rutting, even just snuggling—whatever Spock might need. But before he can add all that, a yawn tumbles out of him. Spock probably already understands. 

Spock murmurs, “This should be adequate, Jim.”

Jim hums his pleasure. He kisses Spock’s cheek and settles into the pillow over Spock’s shoulder, the rest of them all glued together, right down to their shoes. 

They fall asleep like that, out of place but loved.


End file.
